


Froze in Motion

by SailorSol



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Multi, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSol/pseuds/SailorSol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"27 years is both an eternity and an instant."</p>
<p>Nathan is dead, Audrey returns to the Barn, and Duke is left alone.</p>
<p>(AU from The Magic Hour.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Froze in Motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bessemerprocess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessemerprocess/gifts).



> I'm not sure if this one is my fault or [bessemerprocess's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bessemerprocess/pseuds/bessemerprocess). Inspired by [this](http://bessemerprocess.dreamwidth.org/241976.html?thread=1368120#cmt1368120) ficlet in response to my prompt.

_All my time is froze in motion_  
 _Can't I stay an hour or two or more_  
 _Don't let me let you go_

\-- "Here's to the Night", Eve 6

* * *

27 years is both an eternity and an instant.

He’s old now; not as old as Vince and Dave had been that last time, but old enough to feel his years, to know the Troubles are a young man’s game and there’s no chance in hell he’s getting involved in them again. He’s already lost too much—everything—to them, and in 27 years he’s made sure there wouldn’t be anything to lose next time.

There’s always going to be a Next Time, he knows that, and maybe part of him hopes this time he’ll be one of the lucky ones and not survive.

He’d considered leaving Haven, taking his boat and not looking back, never looking back, but Vince and Dave and Dwight asked him to stay, asked him to help keep things from falling apart so badly again. He doesn’t have the energy to tell them no. It’s what Na—

No.

That was 27 years ago, and it had been doomed since the start, and when the woman with her dark brown hair cut into a short pixie crop walks into the Gull the one night a week he still checks in, he feels nothing. Her eyes are sad, but there’s no recognition as she sits at the bar, orders a whiskey on the rocks and downs it in one go.

She’s an insurance adjustor this time, Pamela something. He doesn’t want to know more than that; doesn’t want to know if her fingers still remember the lines of his body that have softened with age, if somewhere in the back of her mind she still has that gaping hole that time never truly healed. If she thinks he’s just a crotchety old bastard who’s got no social skills, then all the better. She won’t come looking to him for answers. If she did…

It wouldn’t matter if she did. Dwight can give her answers, as if it would make any difference.

Pamela puts her hand on top of his; it’s not a friendly gesture, just a request for more alcohol, but he has a sudden and newfound appreciation for what it feels like to go so long without being able to feel and the flare of sparks that comes with renewed contact. He drags his hand out from under hers, refills her glass, and makes his bartender Marty deliver it.

He can’t do this again. He can’t love her again, knowing how this will end. He still loves her (both of them) every minute of every day, and he hopes like hell this time she doesn’t remember her past. She doesn’t need to live with that heartache too.

She stops coming to the Gull as the Troubles get worse. There’s only a few more weeks until the meteor storm returns, before she goes away again for the last time in his lifetime. Things haven’t gotten anywhere near as bad this time. His own Trouble hasn’t returned; no one has come to him asking for death.

* * *

She shows up at the _Cape_ _Rouge_ with tears on her cheeks, clutching a picture of the three of them from that ridiculous Christmas party she’d insisted on throwing in July.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks him.

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Why should I have?”

She says his name. He shakes his head sharply and turns his back. “Please just go.”

She doesn’t listen; she’s never listened. Her hand rests on his arm and he doesn’t have enough left in him not to turn and let her wrap him in a hug. He doesn’t cry. He used up all his tears years ago. They fall into his bed together, but there is no passion any more, just comfort. She’s had less time to mourn than he has.

Somewhere before dawn, he wakes to find himself alone; wonders if it was just a dream, but she left the picture on the nightstand and the scent of roses on his blankets. He knows she’s gone to the Barn again. There’s a bitter irony in knowing that she’s as good as killed him, the same as his father, and his father’s father, and who knows how many generations back. This time her weapon was the painfully twisted knife of loss.

* * *

 

The sky is bright and clear, a gusty autumn breeze stirring leaves into miniature whirlwinds. The cemetery is quiet, no one there to see as he drops to his knees in front of a weathered stone, the marble cool and smooth under his fingers.

There won’t be another 27 years, not this time. A little longer, hopefully no more than a handful of years, and then an instant will pass, and he’ll be faced with a different kind of eternity. He smiles for the first time in years as he stands, leaving the picture behind.


End file.
